


No Good

by doctorate_in_realology



Series: Overwatch One-Offs [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bionic uppercuts motherfucker, Cybernetics, F/F, Fareeha Amari is a fucking walking tank, Fist Fights, Fluff, Humor, Humorous Ending, Overwatch - Freeform, Post-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:20:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorate_in_realology/pseuds/doctorate_in_realology
Summary: Fareeha stumbles upon criminal negotiations, and decides to intervene before any adversities can become of it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is self-indulgent and written in about three hours. Writing badass characters kicking the shit out of hordes of baddies is my new kink.
> 
> Also the title is based of of Kaleo's "No Good" because that's what I imagine is playing while Pharah is decking these shitlords.
> 
> ALSO also, special thanks to my pal Nika for helping me figure out how to write Pharah for this one! Thanks to her sage guidance, we came to the conclusion that Pharah should have bionic arms and be capable of punching dudes through tectonic plates! Fucking neato! [Here's the link to her Tumblr.](http://nikanono.tumblr.com/) Check out her art, as it is indeed very fucking awesome.

“Fareeha, what’s wrong?”

Fareeha’s eyes narrowed on a warehouse in the distance. Several black SUVs were parked in a circle at one of its entrances, the other encircled by four-by-fours and outdated panel vans.

“Fareeha,” Angela urged, growing more inquisitive.

“Sorry, I—I think there’s something going on in that warehouse.”

“Like what?”

“Look at the vehicles. It looks like people are meeting there. Negotiations, maybe.”

“Do you think you might be over-analyzing just a tad?”

“This close to Hanamura? Not a chance.”

If she were being honest with herself, Angela _did_ believe her; it certainly seemed suspicious. The real reason for her impulsive attempt to dissuade Fareeha was that she didn’t want her charging in there without knowing what lay in wait, but she knew how stubborn she could be in such situations.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—Fareeha's obstinacy was borne of wanting to do good, and to protect people. The crux of the problem was that it was at the expense of her own safety. Angela understood it—she even did the same herself—but it was Fareeha. She couldn't help but worry.

“Shall we go find the others?” Angela asked.

“Good idea,” Fareeha concurred. “I’ll head down there and see what’s going on.”

“I said _we_ , Fareeha.”

“I know you did. If it’s dangerous then I’m not taking you down there.”

“If it’s dangerous then I’m not letting you go alone!”

Fareeha turned to Angela and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close enough that she almost had to arch her head nearly ninety degrees down to look her in the eye.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured. “I’m just going to scope things out. Once you get Lena, Hana and Genji, take them to the warehouse. I’ll be there waiting for you.”

Angela puffed a sigh against Fareeha’s chest. “Fine. Just, _p_ _lease_ be careful.”

Fareeha smiled and kissed the top of her head. “I’m always careful.”

She let go of her shoulders and turned to begin her march on the warehouse. As if she meant to do it just to aggravate Angela, she nearly walked face-first into the metal post of a stop sign. She turned back around, a foolish grin plastered on her face in stark contrast of Angela’s stern scowl.

“That doesn’t count.”

“No, of _course_ not,” Angela hissed.

Fareeha shrugged nonchalantly and returned to her course, disappearing from Angela’s sight behind the corner of a building.

“I swear, Fareeha, you’re going to be the death of me,” came Angela’s muttered Swiss-German condemnation.

 

*******

The streets were so crowded it was almost too difficult to locate an ingress of the derelict construction site that enclosed the warehouse.

Fujiyoshida had considerably expanded over the years. It had become quite the metropolis, eventually overtaking Hanamura and turning it from a neighbouring town to a district of the city.

Hence Fareeha’s gut feeling that the meeting at the warehouse was no innocuous get-together—its proximity to the old Shimada palace would have been folly to turn a blind eye to. Even if Hanamura had been nowhere in sight, the congregation of vehicles near an empty warehouse after working hours could have been deduced as being conspicuous by even the most elementary detectives, of which Fareeha was no such thing.

She neared the barely-open doors and peered inside, confirming her suspicions.

Two groups of men were standing across from one another—both clad in suits and couched in scorn and dislike of the opposing side. The man leading the negotiations had what sounded like a South African accent.

“Rest assured that your empire will be restored and its honour intact.”

“I asked what you wanted in return. I doubt quite highly that this is all a gesture of good will.”

“You’re an astute businessman, Takahishi-sama—we want a forty-percent dividend of your profits.”

“Absolutely not. Thirty.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-seven. No lower,” the South African man insisted. “Keep in mind we will also be providing resources out of our own pocket to help you secure and maintain your footing again.”

The other men whispered amongst themselves, beyond Fareeha’s hearing but no doubt discussing the terms.

“Fine,” the supposed Takahishi-sama reluctantly agreed. “Thirty-seven percent.”

“Excellent. Then the Shimada clan’s name and syndicate will be restored. Our association will bring nothing but prosperity to both of our enterprises, Takahishi-sama, I assure you.”

Fareeha’s brow knit together. Dammit, she _knew_ nothing good was going to come of this! Human, arms and drug trafficking, high-profile assassinations, mass extortion—these were but few of the Shimada’s business ventures, and if Fareeha didn’t immediately intervene, then she would be allowing it all to resurface.

So, she slid the door open, stepped inside, and shut it behind her. She clenched her fists, the leather gloves in which they were encased stretching with the tension. Beneath her black leather jacket, her shoulders flexed as she approached the degenerate businessmen.

They noticed her in unison. Some of them took reactionary steps backwards, while others started toward her. The South African man stayed his place, gesturing for his men to do the same.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he lied through his teeth. “Is there anything we can do for you? If you’ve lost your way, my men would be happy to escort you out of the construction site.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be, thank you,” she shot back. Her glare swept across the men in the room. She counted eighteen.

“We’re in the middle of a very delicate business matter, ma’am. A matter that you are interrupting. If you do not leave, I’m afraid my men will be forced to assist you.”

“You want to reform the Shimada crime empire,” she said. “I plan on leaving just as much as I plan on allowing you to do that.”

“So you heard that, hm?” he asked rhetorically. “What a shame.” He turned to one of his men and snapped his fingers, before gesturing to Fareeha. The henchman brandished an extendable baton.

Fareeha stood her ground, letting him cover the distance. As he drew near, he coiled his arm back over his head and swung it downwards in a brutal arc, aiming for the centre of her forehead.

Needless to say, he was quite surprised when she caught the baton in the palm of her hand and snapped it in half with a clenching of her fist. Before he could verbalize his shock, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and bashed her fist into his sternum hard enough to send him skidding across the floor back into the group he was sent forth from.

The other men recoiled in astonishment, aside from the one who sent the thug after her; he stood in smug amusement. He actually seemed impressed. He and his entourage flicked out their batons, while Takahishi’s criminal retinue wielded segmented extensile swords.

Good, then they were on equal ground—Fareeha had weapons of her own.

She shed her leather gloves to reveal metal fists. Several pairs of eyebrows leapt upwards at the sight. Her jacket soon followed, hanging in her hand, its absence divulging bionic prosthetics comprised of dark grey and midnight blue steel plates. She rolled her shoulders—inlaid with small, narrow blue lights along with her biceps and forearms—and cocked her head to either side, cracking the stiffness from her neck.

She made a point of turning her back to the thugs in the room to throw her jacket aside, so that they would see the heavy tattooing on her back that peered over her charcoal-black military tank top.

A canvas depicting the story of the war of succession between Horus and Set for the kingship of Egypt. The gods were symbolized by their worldly manifestations; the jackal-like mythological animal denotative of Set, beset by a falcon and a hawk—Horus and Ra, respectively. The wings of a bird of prey flanked the piece on either side.

She turned back to her foes, staring daggers and making note of their positions as they fanned out throughout the room. She turned on her heel to keep an eye on the men at her back. Making a full rotation, she stopped on the thug directly before her.

She bared her fangs, and wordlessly bade them to begin their assault with a waving gesture of her fingers.

They obliged, and charged.

She threw her elbow out to the right, flattening one of the criminals to the concrete. She shot her fist out in the opposite direction and caught another in the throat. Another swung down at her with a baton; she caught his arm by the wrist and hooked her fist twice into the bottom of his sternum. Stepping to the left and yanking down on his arm, she threw him over her shoulders to the floor and into one of his partners.

One of the sword-wielders closed in and swiped at her. She leaned away from the blade a split-second too late, its tip shallowly lacerating her cheek. She smacked it away on the follow-up, hopping up and kicking into the centre of his chest. She leapt to her left and kicked a metal shelving unit over onto the men behind it, crushing the two that weren’t fast enough.

She spun about, ducking her head and tackling a foe to the ground. She crunched her fist into his teeth, once, twice, before reacting in time to kick the legs out from another running up behind her. He spun before hitting the ground, landing flat on his back. Fareeha launched to her feet, hooked a leg up and dropped her heel into the centre of his face like an axe.

Their ire rose as their numbers fell. In droves, they swarmed her, slashing and swinging and lunging, only to be knocked away, return to their feet, and have the process be repeated.

They could hardly touch her.

Two of them were locked in place by their arms. Fareeha had hers coiled around theirs, twisting them upwards and barring them from motion. One of them swung his foot into her stomach to try and break the gridlock, much to his own error—she answered by digging her foot into the side of his knee, forcing him down. She hurled her leg outwards and swung it between the two, finding purchase in a stomach, a face, ribs, a face again, before she wrenched their arms upwards and fractured the bone.

A baton smashed into her forearm as she dropped the men crying in agony. The plate bowed inwards, but withstood the blow. A quick jab to the centre of his chest sent the assailant reeling. Another tried to stab her from behind—she threw her hips to the side, the blade grazing her abdomen instead of piercing straight through had she not dodged. She planted her foot firmly into his throat, laying him against the concrete.

The first of the two returned, swinging his weapon wide. Fareeha ducked beneath the first and caught the second. She swung him in a circle and smashed the bridge of his nose into one of the steel crossbars of the supine shelving unit. She smashed again, and again, and again, until the bar snapped off its support. She ripped the other end free and swung it outwards as she whirled about, violently catching one of the men in the temple.

Another sword bore down on her—she blocked its path with her impromptu metal staff, smacked it free from his grasp, hooked the rod around his neck and pulled it towards her as she turned. He was pressed to her back, clutching for air as the steel dug into his trachea.

The others remaining distanced themselves from her, holding their weapons outwards and at the ready. She stood her ground, keeping the man at her back pinned there as she stared them down with eyes alight with flame.

“You’re surrounded, lady,” one of them cried out. “There’s too many of us! Give it up already!”

She didn’t bother with a response. There were already only eight left—she, on the other hand, felt her chances were quite solid, though she couldn’t say the same for the men about to have their heads knocked sideways.

Again, she noted where they were, and quickly devised a plan of attack with which to resume the fight.

She wrenched the bar behind her head upwards and sideways, snapping the thug’s neck and dropping him lifelessly to the floor.

“ _Come on!”_ she challenged.

She swung the pole in a wide, brutal swath, levelling anyone in its path. They closed in at once, trying to put an end to her onslaught but she would give them no such pleasure—she pulverized bone into dust with every connected hit, systematically flatlining anyone within range.

She thrust the end of the weapon into an attacker’s stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. One of his compatriots approached Fareeha from the left, swinging his blade downwards at her. She stepped away from its arc, and it sliced through her weapon instead, turning it from staff to spear.

She drilled the sharpened edge through his ribs. As he fell to his knees, Fareeha smashed her fist into the shaft of the weapon, snapping it off in his chest. From spear to dagger, she turned her attention to the remnants.

Two forceful thrusts into a man’s stomach, and another through his temple; a kick to the back of another’s knee, followed by a slash across his chest and a sharpened metal haft buried into the back of his neck; two vicious cleaves to the last’s torso, before hooking around behind him and plunging the improvised knife into his collar bone.

She dropped him to the cold stone floor, and her shoulders heaved. Her breath came heavy and laboured, the fury in it waning in accordance with the fight’s denouement. She surveyed the floor—littered with bodies unconscious and lifeless, spatters and puddles of blood punctuating their defeat. Crimson dripped from the razor-sharp tip of her makeshift dagger and soaked the underside of her fist. She tossed it to the ground with a high-pitched metallic clang.

She should probably get back to Angela and—

“Cor _blimey_ , what the _bloody hell_ happened?!”

Fareeha shot her eyes to the entrance of the warehouse, where she found a gobsmacked Lena and Hana, a characteristically-stoic Genji, and an utterly mortified Angela.

“Negotiations,” Fareeha replied with exertion. “They were talking about reforming the Shimada.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say you threw a spanner in _those_ works,” Lena said. “Bugger me, Far.”

Angela ran to Fareeha, her eyes locked on hers and paying no heed to the heaps of men on the floor. She collided with her and wrapped her arms around her hard enough to force Fareeha to take a step back.

Angela looked at Fareeha’s wounds; the cut on her cheek and abdomen, visible hrough the tear in her blood- and sweat-drenched tank top; wires fraying from her arms where they had sustained blunt force; she lifted her shirt to inspect her—it took considerable effort not to stand there gormlessly looking at her toned stomach, which she was ashamed to admit never failed to fluster her—and found incipient discolouration.

“Are you okay?” Angela asked, concern swelling in her eyes.

Fareeha nodded. “I’m just fine. Had much worse before.”

Angela furrowed her brow. “You told me you would be careful!”

“I was!” Fareeha said through a defensive smile.

“What happened to ‘scoping things out’?” Angela asked in bewilderment. “You could have been killed! You’re not invincible, Fareeha.”

“No, I’m just devilishly good,” she said, grinning widely.

Angela let out an exasperated sigh, but couldn’t help but laugh. She let her forehead fall against Fareeha’s chest—she was just happy that Fareeha wasn't in any worse condition.

“C’mon, lay off her, Angela,” Hana said as she approached them. She turned to Fareeha, and a grin overtook her face. “Fareeha, you _badass!”_

Fareeha chuckled in response to the sentiment. “Come on, let’s get out of here before any more trouble shows up.”

Some of the men groaned in pain, still unable to move. The group turned their attention to them, wondering what should become of them.

“We’ll leave an anonymous tip for the police and have them come to collect,” Fareeha answered to the question that hung in the air. “Let’s just get back to the hideout.”

The others hummed in agreement and started on a brisk walk out of the construction site. Fareeha retrieved her gloves and jacket, brushing dust and a bit of blood from the leather.

“Can’t we go anywhere without having to pick a fight?” Lena jested on their way out. “Fuck’s sake, Genji and I just wanted to get some take-out.”


End file.
